"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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The air was thick with the kind of stillness that only the pre-dawn hours could offer, a quiet so profound it felt almost oppressive. The world around me seemed to hold its breath, as though the earth itself knew that the calm before the storm was never truly peaceful. I glanced at the time on the dashboard—6:02 a.m.—a reminder that even the darkest hours were slipping away, uninvited, carrying with them the weight of the work I had yet to finish.
My hands gripped the steering wheel of the Aston Martin, the leather cool against my fingertips, a familiar comfort amidst the chaos that I carried within. The engine, with its deep, throaty growl, shattered the stillness, cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. I pushed the pedal harder, the car surging forward with a speed that matched the restlessness coursing through my veins. Five hours on the road now, five long hours that had melded together in an endless blur of exhaustion and frustration.
I had always been someone who could endure. But tonight, this morning, the weight of my uncle Alessandro-Armesco Camorra's territory felt heavier than ever before. The sharpness of the road, the endless ribbon of asphalt beneath me—it was all a metaphor for the spiraling thoughts that gnawed at me.
The murder investigations, the disappearances, the endless negotiations—each one a thread in a tapestry of violence and power that had long since stopped feeling like a choice. It was a matter of survival, a grim necessity. And I had to keep moving forward. But damn, I was tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could remedy.
The sun was still hiding behind the horizon, a barely visible sliver of light teasing at the edges of the sky, offering only a faint glow to the dark world around me. My eyes felt heavy, but I wouldn't allow myself the luxury of sleep—not now. Not when there was so much at stake. My mind raced, replaying the images of the deaths I had been privy to, the empty eyes of the ones who had been taken, the faces I could still see, staring at me from the shadows. They were ghosts now—whispers of a world I had long ceased to recognize. And they haunted me.
I leaned back slightly in my seat, letting the cool air from the open window ruffle through my hair. The motion was mechanical, a mere distraction from the weight on my chest. The muscles in my neck were tight, stiff from the stress, from the months of holding it all in. My gaze flickered to the rearview mirror. There was nothing but an empty road behind me. That was the thing about darkness; it had a way of swallowing everything whole. But the silence in the car—the silence in my head—it was louder than any engine could ever be. It was the kind of silence that let your thoughts fester, that whispered all the things you never wanted to hear.
